


Fire and Fleet

by achray



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Herne, M/M, Twelfth Night - Freeform, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: Quentin, Eliot, and the Wild Hunt. A Twelfth Night story.





	Fire and Fleet

**Author's Note:**

> So this has to be posted right now (midnight, 6 January), and therefore I have finished it without reading it through or checking it. Warnings for the kind of doubtful consent that comes with magic, though no doubt is intended.
> 
> Very heavily inspired by Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising.

Quentin wandered down the stairs in quest of wine, book in hand. The miniature Christmas tree twinkled at him: he supposed they’d have to take it down later that night. One more evening of peace and quiet, and then the other students would be back. It had been one of his best Christmas holidays, sad as it might be to admit it. With his dad safely in Florida with his sister and her hundreds of children, it had been Julia and himself, with the occasional appearance from Kady, for nearly two weeks. They’d gone out to a couple of events in the city – which Quentin would happily have skipped – but otherwise they’d stayed in, caught up, rested. The perfect holiday, in Quentin’s opinion.

He looked over towards the fireplace and jumped, nearly stumbling on the stairs.

“Eliot!” he said. “Fuck, you scared me.”

The room was dark other than twinkling fairy lights; Eliot was standing as though posed, wearing what looked like one of his more creative Fillorian outfits, his hair curling round his face. Quentin smiled at him, pleased; it had been a good month or so since he’d caught up with Eliot and Fillory, and part of him always missed Eliot and Margo, even after all this time.

Then he frowned. Something was off. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, uncertain. Eliot tilted his head and studied him, half-smiling.

“Hey,” Quentin said. “Are you OK? Is something up? How did you get here?”

“I went hunting this morning,” said Eliot, dreamily. “In the forest. Or maybe it was a few mornings back, it’s a little unclear.” One hand gestured, towards his clothes, perhaps, which Quentin supposed might have been described as a hunting outfit. They were mostly leather.

“Hunting,” Quentin said. “OK, so…?”

“So I met a hidden god there,” said Eliot. “He was – well. You’ve never been fucked by a god, have you? It was – mmm – out of this world.” He looked directly at Quentin, smiling slightly. In the gloom, his eyes seemed to catch the light, yellow.  He brushed back his hair, and shadows danced on the wall behind him, above his head, shadows which looked remarkably like horns, or antlers.

“And then he gave me an errand to complete,” he said. “Time-sensitive. You can assist.”

Quentin took a step backwards. “Umm,” he said. “Sure. I’ll just – ” Julia was in her room, upstairs. “Julia!” he called, trying not to sound too panicked.

Julia’s door opened and she appeared at the top of the stairs. Quentin beckoned to her, frantically. Eliot, or not-Eliot, had wandered to the window and was gazing out at the snowy Brakebills lawn, frowning slightly, as though he’d never seen it before.

“What’s up?” Julia said.

“It’s Eliot,” said Quentin, in a fast whisper, gesturing. “He’s here but he’s like, _possessed_ or something, he said he fucked a god in Fillory – shit, Julia, I’m sorry – but he -  “

“Hmm,” said Julia. “Hi, Eliot.”

“Hey, Julia,” said Eliot, absently. “Q and I have to run. I need to be in Windsor by midnight, say 11:30 to be on the safe side.”

“Windsor?” said Julia. “As in, Windsor in England?”

“As in, Merry Wives of, yes,” said Eliot. He sounded more like himself, but his eyes were still glinting oddly.

“Q says you met a god?” said Julia, carefully. “Can you tell us – which god, maybe?”

“He prefers to remain incognito,” said Eliot. “He’s – somewhat shy of others. Mostly. He needed a child of Earth to take a greeting for him. And – “ he shrugged – “there I was. Serendipity.”

“El,” said Quentin. “Did he – ”

“Greeting to whom?” said Julia, at the same time.

“To his brother,” said Eliot. He was looking at Julia, but his voice had gone distant again. “To the Lord of this night.” He dipped his head and the shadows swung behind him, again.

“This is ringing a bell,” said Julia. She studied Eliot carefully. “Huh. I think he gave you some of his – essence, perhaps?”

Eliot inclined his head slightly, rather than going for an innuendo, which definitively showed that he was far from himself.

“Windsor Forest,” said Julia, thoughtfully, turning to Q, who shrugged.

“I need to go,” said Eliot. “Now.”

“Just give us a second,” said Julia. She pulled Quentin back a bit, round the stairs. “I think you should go,” she said, quietly. “Keep an eye on him. I think this is – do you remember the legends about the Wild Hunt? Herne the Hunter? You lent me a book about it, back when I was little.”

“Seriously?” said Quentin. “No. You think – really?”

Julia frowned. “Twelfth Night,” she said. “England. Forests.” She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. “And those are fucking _antlers_ , right?”

“But the _Wild Hunt_ – if that’s real, it would be fucking insane, we can’t just –”

“Q,” said Julia. Sometimes she still sounded like a stern but sympathetic goddess. “Eliot has protection. I can see it. But if you let him go alone, I’m not sure he’ll come back.”

“Fuck,” said Quentin. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it. But what do I do if – “

“Play it by ear,” said Julia. “I’m sorry. I’d come with, but I’m not sure girls are invited to this party.”

“Great,” said Quentin. He gave Julia a quick hug, then looked round. Eliot was standing almost unnaturally still, yet conveying impatience.

“I’m coming,” he said. “Are we using the portal to London?”

“Yes,” said Eliot. “I’ll know the way from there.”

Quentin blew out a breath. “Then lead on,” he said, gesturing up the stairs.

**

It turned out that when Eliot said he knew the way, what he meant was that he would hail a black cab imperiously and demand to be taken to Windsor.

“Windsor, mate?” the driver said. “It’ll cost you, that’s about an hour away. Where exactly?”

“To the Great Oak,” said Eliot, with authority.

The driver looked meaningfully at Quentin, who was frantically Googling on his phone.

“I think he means, umm, the – Great Park?”

“Got a postcode?”

Quentin had found a car park. He read it off his phone, hoping it was at least somewhere near wherever Eliot had in mind.  The driver shrugged, keying it in, then pulling off.

“Off to a rave or something, are you?” he said, eyeing Eliot’s jerkin and leggings costume in a mirror.

“Umm, it’s a – Shakespeare…re-enactment thing,” said Quentin. “At, umm, midnight. We’re…actors.”

“Oh, right,” said the driver with deep understanding.

“The moon is near to its zenith,” said Eliot, distantly. “We must hurry.”

“Practicing his lines?” said Quentin, rather hopelessly.

The taxi dropped them off in an entirely deserted carpark, in the middle of what seemed to be some fields. Quentin handed over his credit card, wincing at the fare. It was nearly a quarter to midnight, by the taxi’s clock, they’d been stuck in traffic for what felt like hours, getting out of London.

Eliot was outside the cab already, pacing, when Quentin got out. He watched the taxi driver vanish down the road with a sense of deep misgiving. Eliot was muttering to himself. Then he stopped, turned – disturbingly like a dog, catching a scent – and set off, across the road, over a field, towards the trees. Quentin stumbled after him. It was icy cold, and he hadn’t brought a hat or gloves. The new moon was shining brightly enough to cast some light, and there was a distant glow in the sky from the nearby towns. It was still very dark, though. Quentin had to struggle to keep up with Eliot’s pace, not to trip and fall over.

They hit a forest track, blacker still, leading slightly upwards, then widening into a clearing filled with giant trees.

Eliot stopped. “Here,” he said.

Quentin stood as close to him as he could without holding on to him, trying to catch his breath, which was coming out in white clouds. He looked around. Something hooted in the trees, and there were rustling noises behind him. He felt something – a shift, a tremor – and glanced behind him. The path they had come in on, a twenty-first century path, was gone. There was nothing behind him but trees. He became aware that the faint noises he’d been hearing, of a plane overhead, of traffic on the main roads, were gone too.

He stared across the clearing, trying to pierce the darkness. Then he blinked. One moment ago, the clearing had been empty. Now the moonlight was falling on more substantial shadows; men, horses pawing the ground and snorting, gleams of metal on bridle and on clothing, no faces visible; white shapes lower down, dogs, circling the horses’ legs.

“Oh my god,” said Quentin, shivering. He put a hand on Eliot’s arm, for reassurance.

Eliot turned to look at him, and his eyes were – they were inhuman, the eyes of a bird of prey, or an owl, golden, the pupils black and depthless. Quentin thought about running, shut his eyes for a second, and then gripped Eliot’s arm tighter. He didn’t want to look above those eyes.

“Come,” said Eliot, and they stepped forward towards the gathering – towards the hunt, Quentin thought wildly. He was trying hard not to look to either side, or at anywhere other than the ground immediately in front of him, as riders – ghosts? – moved to surround them. He could hear the panting of ghostly hounds, probably all with very sharp teeth. His skin prickled. There was a feel in the air that he recognized almost instinctively, of very strong, very old, and very hostile magic.

“My lord,” said Eliot, and dropped to one knee. Quentin, caught unawares, followed him down, clumsily and a beat too late. Great. He was probably about to be ripped apart by giant ghost-hounds for being socially awkward in the presence of a –

He glanced up, and then wished he hadn’t. Before them stood a towering figure, crowned with antlers, far larger than any human, and with a face made more startling by the blend of human and animal features. Quentin saw a stern mouth, feathers, fur, and dropped his gaze before he met its – his – eyes.

The figure said something, not in any language Quentin recognized, though at least in human speech, and Eliot stood. Quentin copied him, keeping his eyes down. He could feel his heart beating.

Eliot responded, fluently. It sounded a little as though they were speaking something like Anglo-Saxon, though with other sibilant notes in it. Eliot’s voice was recognizable, but the tone in which he was speaking was not: he sounded entirely different.

The exchange went on for some time, and was greeted with murmurs from the crowd around them. It was hard to tell whether the murmurs were positive. Quentin, trying to decipher even one word, jumped and bit his tongue as something cold pressed against his leg; one of the hounds, its coat so white it seemed almost glowing. It looked up at him out of golden eyes, panting, tongue lolling over very sharp fangs.

Quentin had never got on with dogs, and this wasn’t the kind of creature you might pet. He swallowed, let a hand rest for a moment on the dog’s back, and then hastily removed it. Its fur was ice-cold to the touch. The chill was seeping through his jeans.

Eliot had stopped talking. Quentin looked sideways at him. The figure in front of them said something with a final tone, and then its great head swung towards Quentin.

“And this other mortal?” it said, in recognizable English, though with no accent Quentin had ever heard.

“He rides with me,” said Eliot.

“Very well,” said the figure. “Then let us ride.”

He turned away, and Quentin let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

One of the shadowy men, eyes glinting through a helmet, and with a dark beard, brought a horse over to Eliot and Quentin. It was huge, glossy black, and with no sign of a saddle or any way to mount, not that Quentin knew how to get on a horse in any case.

Beside him, Eliot took hold of a handful of the black mane, jumped, and was somehow sitting on the broad back of the horse before Quentin could register what had happened.

“Come,” said Eliot, leaning over and reaching out a hand.

“How – “ said Quentin.

Eliot beckoned impatiently, and Quentin reached up and took his hand. There was a whirling sensation, and he found himself sitting behind Eliot, on the horse. He hastily put his arms round Eliot’s waist. It was a long way down.

The horse wheeled and reared. Quentin clung on for dear life. Then a horn sounded, though whether he was really hearing it, in the external world, was impossible to tell: it was a sound the thrumming of a great bell, which went through him, inside him. He found himself sitting up straighter, trying to urge the horse with his legs. The sound continued, a peal of notes, and around him Quentin could see the company, and the hounds, streaming forward into the woods. Their own horse followed, near to the back of the pack; Quentin strained forward, wanting them to go faster. They were galloping through trees, faster than should have been possible, weaving in and out with hoofbeats all around them. And then they reached a cleared space, and ahead of him Quentin saw, or thought he saw, the leading horse and its rider ride into the air, off the ground.

He had hardly time to notice this before their own horse was riding faster upwards, earth exchanged for air. Below him, in the moonlight, Quentin could see only dark forest, as far as the horizon, with one thick ribbon of silvery water running through it. The hunt wheeled, following this.

The horn sounded again, and its note had changed. As they curved in a wide circle in the air Quentin could see that now the hunt had a quarry, something hard to see clearly, but certainly deer-like, and glowing in the moonlight. This time the music of the horn was maddening; it told him they had to catch, to kill, to rend – Quentin bit his lip hard, tasting blood and pleased for it; he was filled with a fierce and single-minded desire to reach their quarry.

After that, things became confused. The hunt raced through the sky – the quarry was just ahead, or was he behind – they swirled, curved, fell to the ground and galloped along the surface of a curling river, mist rising from it, and then up again, faster and faster, the horn sounding through it all. Quentin had lost track of where he was, or who he was. He wanted the hunt to end, and he wanted it never to stop. He could not have thought of his name, of who he was; he was simply part of the company, identical in their longings.

When the hounds caught the quarry and started to pull it down he knew it – they knew it – and he was filled with both horror and pity, and ferocious joy. The horses chased after the hounds, and they descended to another clear space in the woods, where the dogs were fighting in a struggling mass, something rising and falling beneath them. Quentin slid from the horse, ran forward with the others, pushing through the hounds, and striking it with his spear, smelling blood and fear; he raised his helmet and licked at the blood from his spear, laughing and crying at once.

He was sitting against a tree. Somewhere in the distance there was a fire, and the scent of meat, and laughter or music, a dog howling. One of his fellows, passing, tossed him a hunk of flesh and he bit into it, tearing with his teeth, until he had got to bone. His helmet had gone: blood was sticky on his cheeks. Someone was coming over to him, kneeling beside him: Quentin started to snarl at them, but then recognized it – him – Eliot.

Eliot parted his lips to speak and Quentin leaned in and kissed him, hard, grasping for him. Eliot tasted of smoke and blood; Quentin wanted to _devour_ him. He scrabbled to get closer and pushed Eliot over, onto the ground, climbing over him and trying to get his clothes open, while Eliot kissed him back, just as desperately.

**

Quentin opened his eyes. Above him he saw branches, and grey morning sky. Birds were singing. An aeroplane roared overhead. He blinked. He was lying on something cold and hard, parts digging into his back – and he was _naked_. He turned his head and saw leaves. He had been asleep – unconscious – in a forest somewhere. Without his clothes. As soon as he thought this, he was shivering, though before he had been perfectly warm. What had _happened_? He closed his eyes and tried to think. The hunt – its leader – the quarry – blood, smoke, killing….Eliot. He had a very sharp, fleeting memory of pressing himself against Eliot, skin to skin, biting at his neck. Oh, fuck.  

There was a groan from somewhere nearby. He pushed himself up a bit and looked around. Eliot was about a foot away from him, sitting up, head in hands. He was also naked. He looked, Quentin was relieved to see, totally human.

“Um,” he said. “Eliot? Are you alright?”

“No,” said Eliot. “This is like the mother of all fucking hangovers, and I should know. What the fuck.” He looked over at Quentin. His face had streaks of dirt, and possibly blood. There were marks on his body, bruises, scratches, which might have been from the forest floor, or might have been from whatever Quentin had done to him. Quentin sat up properly, and wrapped his arms around his knees, shivering harder.

Eliot’s eyes widened. “Fuck,” he said. “You look like – “

“So do you,” said Quentin. “With the – blood and – shit – ”

“This is all coming back to me,” said Eliot. “And not in a, like, sweet, melancholy Celine Dion kind of way. I think I ripped something apart with my bare hands and ate it raw, Jesus fucking Christ, I’m covered in _blood_.”

“I had a _spear_ ,” said Quentin. “And – armour? We were on that horse, and I was in my jeans and then – I wasn’t….Wasn’t it a deer? That we – they – were hunting?”

Eliot rubbed at his forehead, smearing it further. “It was him,” he said. “Herne. Lord of the Hunt. He’s – he’s kind of the leader and the quarry. Deer and man. I know this – I _knew_ this…”

“You spoke to him,” said Quentin, remembering. “In a weird language. You told Julia you had a message to deliver, or something.”

“Yes,” said Eliot, frowning. “I was in Fillory, in the woods there, and I met a minor god, wouldn’t give his name; he was a bit less fucking terrifying than last night’s though, so we drank together and then things kind of – progressed from there, in a good way – and then he said that since we’d met, could I take a greeting to his brother on Earth and kind of - represent. And then he worked some magic on me. Did I seem – magicked up, to you?”

“Ha,” said Quentin. “Eliot, you had, like, fucking semi-invisible antlers and the eyes of an owl. Do you even remember coming to Brakebills?”

“Ugh,” said Eliot. He shivered. “Sort of. It’s all – hazy. Like I was really fucked up on one of Josh’s best brownies, you know? I was there and I wasn’t there.” He sighed.

“Do you – remember how we ended up naked?” Quentin said.

Eliot met his eyes. His mouth twitched. “I could say I remember nothing,” he said. “But that wouldn’t be one hundred per cent accurate. I’m not sure I remember all the good bits, though. You?”

“Err,” said Quentin. “Not – really. I didn’t want – I might have hurt you, I really didn’t know what was going on, so – I’m sorry if I – ”

Eliot held up a hand. “We should have a moratorium on apologies,” he said. “We were out of our minds. I totally consented to whatever we did, though. The sex and – the unusual level of violence. Unusual for me, that is. In fact, I recall consenting _very_ enthusiastically.”

“That’s – good,” said Quentin. “Because I think some of that blood on you is yours. Or maybe mine.”

“Definitely yours,” said Eliot. “You should see yourself, sweetheart. Right. Now that’s sorted, do you think our clothes survived a night at the hunt?”

Quentin uncurled his arms and stood up, slowly and painfully, as several bruises made themselves felt. It seemed a bit pointless to be embarrassed. To his relief, there were clothes – his normal, human clothes, and bits of Eliot’s outfit – scattered a few feet away. He went over, tossed some to Eliot, and pulled his on. There were giant rips in the front of his T-shirt, his jeans were filthy, and his belt and his boxers had entirely disappeared. So had his socks, though he was relieved to find his shoes. The top half of Eliot’s costume appeared to be shredded. He had boots and leggings, but was left in a flimsy looking shirt.

They looked at each other. Eliot was clearly trying not to laugh.

“We have to get back like this,” said Quentin. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh come on,” said Eliot. “It’s fucking hilarious.”

“You won’t think that when we’re fucking walking twenty miles back to London,” Quentin said.

But in the event, they only had to walk into Windsor, where they found a very small taxi rank: it was only 6am, so the one driver was willing to take two people with a blatantly fake explanation of what they’d been up to into town, providing they had a credit card. Less fortunately, they had to hide in an alleyway until the pub opened at noon.

The portal from London deposited them back in Margo’s room, surprising two mystery students making out on the bed, who shrieked and fled at the sight of them. Loud music was coming from downstairs: clearly everyone was back and celebrating with the traditional start of term party. Even over the music, though, the babble of voices was audible, and it was obvious that the kids they’d interrupted were loudly sharing the details.

Eliot sighed. “Come on,” he said, taking Quentin’s hand. He pulled him, protesting, to the head of the stairs. Then he clapped his hands. Everyone below fell silent, and some enterprising soul cut off the music, mid-song.

“Greetings, my children,” said Eliot. “Quentin and I have been in England, riding with the Wild Hunt and speaking with gods. And also, fucking like animals.”

Quentin saw Julia, standing with a glass of wine in a corner and looking amused. She raised an eyebrow at him. He made an apologetic face.

“We will now,” Eliot announced grandly, “sleep. And shower. I will return to Fillory tomorrow, but I’m sure Q here will be happy to share all the details in my absence.” He bowed regally. There was even a scattering of cheers. Eliot flicked his fingers, and the music resumed.

“Thanks for that,” said Quentin.

“You _should_ be thanking me,” said Eliot. “I’m always thinking of your reputation, darling.” He met Quentin’s eyes. “Though I should be thanking you, too. I was a long way from myself, last night. I think you brought me back.”

“Any time,” said Quentin. He meant it.

“So,” said Eliot. “Let’s shower, compare our war wounds, and discuss how you shape up in relation to a minor deity. Shall we?”

He met Quentin’s eyes, and Quentin knew it was a genuine question. If he said no, Eliot would smile at him, disappear into his old room, and be gone tomorrow.

And if he said yes, Eliot would still be gone tomorrow, but tonight –

“Yes,” he said.


End file.
